Brother Marvell’s Canine College and Pet Cemetery

The remarkable tale of an arsonist preacher who orchestrated his own demise and found a new calling with dogs.

Reggie Marvell was at the creosote plant loading dock one morning when he felt a divine calling to preach. He would often share how God had told him, “Reg, I have bigger plans for you,” prompting him to leave his job without a second thought, telling his boss to mail his final paycheck.

His decision was facilitated by the fact that Gethsemane Baptist, the small church he attended, was in need of a new preacher after losing their last one to a larger congregation.

Known as Brother Marvell, he quickly became a charismatic and entertaining preacher, successfully increasing the church's membership. Eventually, he received an offer from a larger church himself, Tranquility Baptist, which provided him with a car and a lovely parsonage for his family. Yet, he never forgot his humble beginnings.

If Jesus was a carpenter, Reggie was a regular working man—no pretensions. On Sundays and for prayer meetings, he donned a black suit and a slim tie, but during the week, he opted for the practical attire of khaki pants and shirts. He was a true man of the people.

Under his leadership, Tranquility Baptist flourished. The church grew so much that they replaced their quaint brick building with a larger, modern sanctuary characterized by a mix of redwood and blonde brick. Instead of traditional stained glass, the tall windows featured colorful, psychedelic glass reminiscent of a rock concert.

Brother Marvell had a flair for the theatrical, captivating audiences even if his scriptural knowledge wasn’t seminary-level. Once, during a sermon about a rich man’s chances of entering Heaven, he humorously misinterpreted a biblical reference regarding a camel and a needle, leading to laughter as he listed various large animals that couldn’t pass through.

His most famous sermon, “Brother, lovest thou these more than me?” featured a table of props symbolizing worldly distractions. He would dramatically engage with items like cigarettes or whiskey, challenging the congregation with his catchphrase, prompting enthusiastic audience participation.

His engaging style extended beyond preaching; he would also invite missionaries and their converts from exotic places, dressed in traditional attire, captivating the rural audience.

Unlike many fundamentalists today, Brother Marvell focused on combating sin rather than political matters. His activism sometimes took a humorous turn, as when he disrupted a school carnival over gambling or confronted the local dive, Blue Castle, known for its vices.

One fateful night, the Blue Castle mysteriously burned down, and rumors spread that Brother Marvell and some church members were responsible for its fiery demise.

My own encounters with Brother Marvell were limited, but I recall a summer visit to our house where he fervently preached about the necessity of baptism, dismissing my mother’s Methodist upbringing as inadequate. She soon shut the door on him after his intense sermon.

As Tranquility Baptist thrived, Brother Marvell found ways to spend the church’s surplus funds, traveling to the Holy Land and indulging in gossip about his extended visits to widows and single women in the congregation.

Tensions rose when some deacons attempted to remove him from his position, but he thwarted their plans by intimidating them with a shotgun during a meeting. Ultimately, he engineered his own ouster by building a large fence around the parsonage and constructing a training area for police dogs, a move that raised eyebrows among the congregation.

The dogs, aggressive and noisy, became a distraction during services. The deacons eventually took action, removing the dogs and hiring a new pastor while Brother Marvell was away.

After his departure, the community soon noticed construction on a nearby lot. Eventually, a sign appeared announcing the opening of “MARVELLOUS CANINE COLLEGE & PET CEMETERY,” marking a new chapter for Brother Marvell, who was now training dogs and handling pet burials, seemingly leaving behind his preaching days.

Occasionally, I would see him working in the yard, reminiscent of the days he baptized new members at Tranquility. My friend Frankie joked about him possibly baptizing dogs, to which I quipped that I hoped he had learned to appreciate the virtues of sprinkling instead.

Excerpted and adapted from As I Die Laughing: Snapshots of a Southern Childhood, a memoir available in hardback, paperback, and Kindle form on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CGY7GF1C